


Come Down Now

by lei_che_sogna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-23
Updated: 2010-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lei_che_sogna/pseuds/lei_che_sogna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where they're all turned into birds. No, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Down Now

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Спуститься на землю](https://archiveofourown.org/works/604668) by [Rainy_Elliot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainy_Elliot/pseuds/Rainy_Elliot)



“The British Museum needs a bit of help with the stabbing death of one of their employees, found in her flat when she didn’t turn up to work for a few days. The only thing we’ve found on the body is this, some kind of stone, wrapped in a bit of lined paper,” Lestrade said, indicating the evidence bag, “which was found clutched in the corpse’s hand. The deceased was the Keeper of their Ancient Egypt and Sudan department.”

There was a phrase written in pencil on the wrapping. Sherlock flipped the bag over, following the words written in a tight, academic hand. He paused suddenly, reaching into his pocket to get out his mobile, and John stepped forward to see what he’d found.

“The Feather of Nekheny, The Distant One,” John read from next to him, leaning over Sherlock’s elbow to get a good look. Sherlock wished he wouldn’t do that quite so much. It didn’t exactly break his concentration, but it didn’t help, either.

“More commonly known as Horus,” Sherlock said, tilting the mobile toward John and indicating the hieroglyphic symbol.

“What’s that?” Donovan asked, coming into Lestrade’s office. “You solve it already, freak?”

Anderson, following her in, shut the door behind him. He went to stand in the corner, loath to get too near for fear of being shouted at again.  
“You’ll want the Deputy Keeper of Ancient Egypt, Archaeology,” Sherlock said, tapping quickly on his mobile. The killer and his motive were obvious, but he was more interested in the feather. Small, so a funerary amulet would make the most sense. He scrolled through the British Museum collection, searching for something similar. No instances of a feather-shaped amulet. Intriguing.

“David Jones? We’ve already checked him out, and right now he’s on an archaeological dig in Saqqara! How can you possibly-“ Lestrade sputtered.

“Of course he didn’t do it himself. You’ll find his sister’s ex-boyfriend, a man of limited intellect but good with a knife, received a parcel posted from Cairo last week. Inside were instructions to arrange a meeting with the Keeper, using the feather as bait. The man’s still asleep in his flat in Clapham right now. You should be able to arrest him easily enough.”

“Got it,” Donovan said, rounding the desk to appropriate Lestrade’s phone. Lestrade, accustomed to this behaviour, rolled his eyes and got up to talk to Anderson about some reports the man had failed to submit that afternoon.

Sherlock traced the hieroglyph on the small screen of the mobile with his forefinger.

Why a feather? It didn’t belong, if it really was ancient Egyptian at all. More likely it was a clever fake, but appearing sufficiently genuine to be used as bait for an accomplished Egyptian scholar. Needing a closer look, Sherlock opened the evidence bag, reaching in to pull out the stone.

“Shouldn’t you put on gloves at least? What makes you so bloody special?” Anderson asked, annoyed.

Sherlock, ignoring him, carefully unrolled the wrapping. In its nest of paper it could easily be identified as a feather, made of green jasper and polished to a high sheen. He held an edge of the paper and shook the amulet into the palm of his hand.

Things changed.

*

The office windows, blinds open to reveal the night sky, made a perfect mirror for reflecting their new forms.

“You’d think that if we were all going to be turned into birds we’d at least be the same kind.” Lestrade said, balancing carefully on the window ledge. “I mean, an owl?”

“It’s because you’re so _smart_ ,” Donovan quipped dryly. “I am clearly the winner as there’s a famous poem about me everyone reads in school.”

“Don’t be more stupid than you can help, you’re just a crow,” Sherlock snapped. “A carrion crow.”

“Like my nan’s stories about the Morrígan. I like that,” Sally said, examining her reflection with a satisfied air.

“You would,” Sherlock retorted.

He would’ve preferred to be something a bit larger than a sparrowhawk, but apparently there was no choice in the matter. After the first brief hysteria, they’d settled down and discovered they could still speak English; the mood had relaxed somewhat then. Anderson wasn’t managing quite as well as the rest, but then again he was a seagull.

The windows in New Scotland Yard didn’t open wide enough for them to squeeze through, but after a few false starts they managed to work the phone. Anderson held the receiver steady while Lestrade shouted down the line at the night duty officer to find some people to carry them up to the roof.

*

John hopped to the edge of the roof and looked down. It seemed a colossally far distance, so far he could barely take it in. There was nothing for it. Before he could think properly about it (similar to how he killed—the instinct was there but the longer he thought the worse it became), he gathered himself and jumped.

For a short while there was nothing, and then he wasn’t falling. He was streaking across instead of down. Then he found an updraft; up, and up, and everything else dropped away. The niggling suspicion that he would turn back into a human as soon as he leapt vanished in the assurance of flight. He had never before understood why someone might want to be a pilot, and though it would be so different in a machine he felt the lure now. He spiralled in a tight corkscrew, climbing farther away from the earth (he was so light) and circled back to land on the rail surrounding the roof that prevented people from falling. The irony of this was not lost on John.

The people had gone (John wondered if they were promised extra pay for not talking, but who would believe them anyway?), and now there were just four mismatched birds staring at him. He couldn’t read their faces in the same way as he would a human’s, but he fancied he could still see Sherlock behind the sparrowhawk’s seemingly ferocious yellow irises.

“That was amazing,” breathed Donovan. “I have to try.”

She was off, glossy black in between the dark buildings and acid white-orange haze of light pollution, wings beating in the night air.  
At this Anderson took a running start, slapping his feet against the gravel and hurtling into ungainly flight. John tilted his head back to watch the two twirling and darting. He readied to join them when he realised Sherlock hadn’t moved, standing motionless next to Lestrade.

“Sherlock? Aren’t you going to fly?”

Sherlock shook himself as if coming out of a reverie, and walked carefully to the edge as John had done before. He pushed off, wings beating quickly before settling into a glide. He tilted his wings this way and that, looking for all the world like he was figuring out the unfamiliar controls of a hired car. John tried to grin but with a beak it felt decidedly odd. He jumped off the railing to do slow circles above Lestrade, joining Donovan and Anderson who were laughing with exhilaration as they floated in the air.

“I don’t care if flying makes you feel like fucking lambs in the springtime, we’ve got to turn back into people,” Lestrade shouted up at them. “Sherlock! Any ideas? Please?”

Sherlock folded his wings to drop straight onto the roof in front of the DI.

“None yet, but I live in hope.”

“As do I,” Lestrade retorted. “How much time do you need?”

“Three days should be sufficient.”

“Three days!”

“Three days, steps of the British Museum, and we’ll be people again.”

*

John was the most beautiful bird Sherlock had ever seen. Sherlock wondered why this was, exactly. John was a sparrow, and as such should have been completely ordinary in every respect. Nothing anyone would look at twice. His plumage was not particularly showy, but it suited him well.

Nor was John a perfect specimen of the species _Passer domesticus_. He canted ever so slightly to the left when he flew, and sometimes when he extended his wings fully after he’d been flying for an uninterrupted period of time there was a slight trembling in his small frame which no-one but Sherlock would have noticed. It wasn’t very difficult for John to keep up with Sherlock, for all he tired easily in his new body (though he never would have admitted it) and Sherlock insisted they land once on the way back to Baker Street. Although this was mostly so Sherlock could test his hunting abilities (excellent: two finches and a starling, and all without exerting himself unduly) he didn’t doubt John appreciated the chance to rest.

Once home Sherlock contrived to fit John through the letterbox (there were no windows open) and told him to find Mrs. Hudson.

Twenty minutes later they were safely ensconced in their flat with a window open wide enough to go in and out of, two dishes of water (one large and one smaller), and a tray of seeds for John (borrowed off a neighbour who kept birds).

Mrs. Hudson was clearly a woman of infinite resource who, when faced with talking birds, had surprisingly not leapt to the conclusion she was going mad. Instead she seemed to consider them something of a novelty. Seated comfortably in what Sherlock thought of as his chair, she kept coaxing John to hop onto her hand. Once there, she gently smoothed the top of his head with a careful finger, reminiscing about the canary she used to own as a girl. John fell asleep in her palm after ten minutes, exhausted.

Sherlock had analysed the emotion he was experiencing as jealousy, categorised it as illogical, and chose to ignore it in favour of setting up some experiments. There were so many things he could test as a bird, he didn’t quite know where to start. He was somewhat limited with just the four toes on each foot, but luckily they were flexible in the extreme. Not to mention that he was now equipped with a beak that was essentially a fine paring knife. True, he’d have to get a little closer than he usually did, but he’d never been one for squeamishness. The first order of business would be to see if he could open the fridge by himself. Sherlock set to work.

*

“Sherlock? Are you hungry?”

“Nnnn,” Sherlock muttered, scraping one of his claws against the table absentmindedly. Why was it so difficult for everyone to leave him alone while he thought?

“Sherlock?”

That was it, he had it, he-

“Are you hungry?”

“No,” Sherlock stated, whipping his head about and down to glare into John’s liquid black eyes. Eyes set in the sides of the skull, as he was prey for any number of larger creatures and needed to see things coming. Considering what it must be like, John was coping surprisingly well. They all were. Sherlock supposed that being able to communicate in English helped.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Why?”

“Well, seeing as how you’re a sparrowhawk and I’m a sparrow, I was wondering if you felt any sort of animal instinct to try to eat me.”

“Not in the way in which you mean, no.”

“Well...thank you? Not sure I understand you, but okay. You will, y’know, tell me? If you think you might try to eat me?”

“I promise you, John, you’ll be the first to know. But I have already consumed three birds of varying sizes within the last eighteen hours, so I’m not hungry just now. Not to mention that the way in which the _Accipiter nisus_ successfully catches its prey is by utilising the element of surprise. It is only a successful approach ten percent of the time but my personal success rate so far is many times that. All the same, I don’t believe I could surprise you.”

“Ah. Well, thanks for that.”

“I don’t see why we should behave any differently, just because we’re birds,” Sherlock said, baffled.

“But don’t you think it’s unusual? We’re all different birds.”

“Not at all. If you’d expended some thought upon the matter you’d see that each person is precisely the bird they should be. Sally is a crow, a highly intelligent bird with a finely developed instinct for problem solving.”

“I’m going to tell Donovan you think she’s clever.”

Sherlock ignored him, pressing on. “The good inspector is a Tawny Owl, patient and known for its skill in capturing prey. Perhaps better at it than Lestrade is himself, but maybe he can learn something from this experience.”

“And Anderson is a seagull.”

“And Anderson is a seagull.”

“Have you thought about this before?” John asked, dumbfounded.

“I’ve certainly considered the possibility, yes.”

“The possibility of us all being turned into birds?”

“I was bored,” Sherlock said, turning away to pick at a glutinous mass of...something...on the table.

John shook his head, then hopped into the other room. Although he could press the buttons the telly was almost too large to take in, and there was no way he’d be able to type anything on his laptop. He sighed. He was tired anyway. He flew over to one of the throw pillows and nestled into it.

*

Flying, John was witness to bits of London in a way he never had been before. All right, there were his rooftop chases at Sherlock’s side (which happened too frequently for his liking), but they were always moving too fast, too focussed on the chase, for him to take it all in. Navigating from a completely different angle was a challenge at first but if there was one thing at which John Watson excelled it was overcoming a challenge.

Nor was being a bird without its dangers. He had a good understanding of his physical limitations in this form and held the advantage over the other London fauna by virtue of his advanced reasoning capabilities. It was still possible some much larger animal, like a human, could surprise him. Part of John needed to be on constant guard, which was like Afghanistan.

Now resting on a tree branch in Hyde Park he marvelled at how green everything was, with the Serpentine a shining swath teeming with tourists on pedalos. He’d left Afghanistan many months ago, but it still came back to him at odd moments. No nightmares, not very frequently any more, but brief flashes of sense memory pressing to the forefront of his brain, insistent upon making themselves known. The desert heat, so dry that each breath was like a knife through the lungs. The sand, which you had to accept as part of yourself because you would never be rid of it in your clothing, your hair, your everything.

He preferred the rooftops but this greenery was still London. His city. He’d fallen for it anew, entranced by a previously unseen facet of the whole. This experience was like a pleasant holiday, a departure, but he didn’t want to stay this way forever. It was more than likely that their lifespan was drastically reduced in these fragile bodies, not to mention he didn’t want to eat seeds and grit for the rest of his days. He trusted Sherlock would set it right again. He’d placed his faith in him so long ago it was impossible to waste time worrying that they were stuck this way permanently.

It was far more probable that Sherlock and he would be stuck in the strange limbo state in which they resided together, something closer than friends but less than lovers. John had no idea where to start: how to go about changing it. It had sprung into being soon after they’d met as if things had always been that way, and they’d been trapped there ever since. It was comfortable, true; it fit better than anything he’d had with anyone else, but John wanted more. But how?

He was ruminating on this problem when motion overhead caught his eye. He glanced up to see a large grey-and-white shape swooping down to land beside him. The immediate instinct to flight was dampened by his recognition of Sherlock.

“Ready to go?” Sherlock asked.

“Can you just sit with me for a minute?” John asked. He immediately wished he could snatch the words back, fearing he’d given himself away.

If Sherlock was surprised, he didn’t say anything. They sat together on the branch, the wind ruffling their feathers, and looked out on Hyde Park and London beyond.

*

Back at Baker Street that evening, John had almost got the hang of concentrating his vision enough to focus on the telly. He wasn’t going to settle for just listening; if he’d wanted to listen to something he’d have put on Radio Four. He was going to watch Mitchell and Webb and laugh at _every joke_ , dammit.

“I wish everybody was a bird, and not just us.”

“Why?” came Sherlock’s distracted voice from the next room. It sounded like he was chewing on something. John decided he’d rather not know what.

“Are you lonely? If you go outside there are plenty of birds. You can make new friends.” The inflection Sherlock gave this last sentence was more venomous than he would have liked.

“I think tomorrow we should get everybody together and go to Trafalgar Square. We can terrify tourists by sitting on the lions and staring at them. It’ll be like ‘The Birds’ all over again but in London and therefore scarier.”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but they don’t have birds in Trafalgar Square any longer.”

“What?” John fluttered into the kitchen to land next to him, puffing up his feathers in agitation. Sherlock resolutely ignored how much it made him look like he was wearing one of his wooly jumpers.

“That’s not true! I know they were like disease-ridden rats with wings but there will always be pigeons in Trafalgar Square!”

“No, there won’t, because there aren’t any there now. Tomorrow we’re going to the British Museum. What do you mean by ‘The Birds’?”

“You know, _The Bi_ \- Oh, you haven’t seen that one either, have you? Are there any cultural references you do understand?”

“Not if I can help it. I don't understand why you view it as a personal affront every time you discover another one of your ‘must-see’ films I haven't watched. As if the world would come to a screeching halt just because I haven’t seen one of the many films you consider 'classic.'”

“Well, we’ll watch it and you’ll see what I mean. Later. When we have thumbs.”

*

The next day dawned depressing. The mostly sunny sky of the previous day had given way to so many clouds it was an even shade of gray that made it appear flat. Even though there was a strong wind Sherlock and John flew to the British Museum.

Donovan derisively cawed “Freak!” at Sherlock as they landed on the steps and was startled into flight when John lunged at her unexpectedly, small pointed beak arrowing towards her breast.

“So sorry, must be my animal nature getting the better of me,” John said placidly, and dodged Donovan’s attempt to land on him.

Sherlock interspersed himself between them, yellow-ringed eyes narrowing in anger. Donovan fell back in surprise and decided it was best to let it pass.

“Sorry, force of habit,” she apologised. “I’ve been spending time with some other crows and everything sounds better the way they say it.”

“I believe it’s in our best interest to go to a less populated place, or at least somewhere where we won’t be overheard,” Sherlock said, glancing about. “That is unless you’d prefer to end in Ripley’s Believe it or Not! Museum. Anderson?”

Anderson had wandered off and was busying himself catching scraps of stale pain au chocolat thrown at him by a couple from Narbonne. Sherlock had no idea why one would bother to eat French food outside France as it was a poor imitation of the real thing but he saw from the way the woman scraped back her hair into a tight bun and how the man buttoned his mac that they yearned for home. It was their first time outside their own country let alone in England; the culture shock was fresh after a day and a half, and the terrible pastry had just made it worse—they should’ve had a nice bacon roll instead.

The Grecian Revival frieze above the entryway was perfect for their purposes, as there was no chance of being overheard by anyone except for other birds.

“Anderson is even more annoying as a bird, if that were possible.”

“Oh, don’t be such a wet blanket,” Donovan said. “It’s been hard on him, being a seagull. Nobody thinks seagulls are special.”

Lestrade turned his head about until it reached a disconcerting angle. “Any time today would be good.”

“Well, the feather-“ Anderson flapped up to join them. “Anderson, go away.”

“Oh God, not this again,” moaned Lestrade.

“Can’t you perch over there?” Sherlock asked. “You have mites.”

Anderson hesitated, and Sherlock could almost see him wondering if he should assert himself.

“Just go, would you? I don’t want to eat insects for any longer than I have to,” Lestrade bit out.

Anderson, sulking, went.

“Does he really have mites?” Donovan asked. Her feathers rustled as she repositioned her wings.

“Does it matter?”

“I can still hear you, you know,” Anderson said.

“Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. What do we have? A feather. A feather that is apparently possessed of magical properties. Now-” Sherlock held up a claw at the babble the last sentence had caused, waiting for silence to continue.

“Only the people who were in the room with me when I touched it were affected. It’s the only common denominator.”

“We need to get the feather back.”

“It’s still at Scotland Yard, right? Let’s go!” Donovan looked ready to take to the air at a moment’s notice.

“But we’re still birds; how are we going to convince them to give us a piece of evidence?”

Sherlock waited for them to calm down again; really, they got excited about the simplest of things. It must be so tiring, being one of them. 

“I suggest you come with John and me. We can easily have the feather delivered to Baker Street with minimal fuss.”

Their expressions were nowhere near human, but Sherlock contented himself that they were dumbfounded all the same. He loved doing that.

*

Mrs. Hudson held up Sherlock’s mobile whilst Lestrade shouted into it.

“Look, just because I’ve been ill is no reason to question me like this! That’s a vital piece of evidence and I need it if we’re going to solve this case!”

There was a chastened mumble from the other end. Lestrade cocked his head, listening with mounting indignation.

“I don’t care if they’ve put Dimmock on it now! This is my case and he can piss off!”

In response there was an aggrieved mutter that seemed to indicate consent, and Lestrade hissed out a breath, gesturing with a wing for Mrs. Hudson to end the call.

“Call in sick for a few days, and it’s like you’ve died,” he said.

“Mrs. Hudson, we’ll need you for this,” Sherlock said. “You have to answer the door.”

“It must be very important, then?” she queried, looking at each of the birds in turn.

“Very,” Anderson replied shortly.

“So make sure the courier gives it to you,” Lestrade said.

“But if all else fails, Mrs. Hudson, just take it off him,” Sherlock said, to her evident delight.

“It’s going to be just like one of those heist films, like that one with George Clooney! I know you’re not meant to notice, dear, seeing as you have John, but that George Clooney’s so attractive, isn’t he?”

Sherlock had said he had no idea. This was a lie. But he’d have to disagree with Mrs. Hudson regardless, and a lie was often more believable than the truth.

*  
It went like clockwork; the police courier arrived at Baker Street with the feather in its labelled specimen bag, Lestrade shouted down the stairs at Mrs. Hudson to sign for it, and then it was theirs. Sherlock was pleased some people managed to follow orders properly. She’d seemed a bit silly before, but perhaps he’d rely on the woman more in the future.

Mrs. Hudson, who’d been under strict instructions not to so much as look at its contents for more than thirty seconds, placed the bag gently on the kitchen table. At Sherlock’s bidding she opened it, carefully shaking its contents onto the pitted and stained wood surface.

“Mrs. Hudson, I need you to go into the next room. Depending upon what happens we may require further assistance.”

Mrs. Hudson went as far as the doorway, albeit a bit grudgingly.

“And don’t stand in the doorway,” Sherlock added.

There was a soft shuffling sound as Mrs. Hudson moved away.

“What are you going to do?” Lestrade asked. “Should we join hands, er, wings or something?”

Sherlock glared at Lestrade as if to show how far beneath him the suggestion was.

“I want everybody else off the table, and spread out through the room. Give yourselves as much space as you’d need were you human.”

Once everybody was settled, Sherlock sidled over and placed one yellow foot on the feather. In the space of a breath they had all ceased being birds and become themselves again.

“Did it work?” Mrs. Hudson queried, sticking her head round the doorframe in clear defiance of orders. Upon seeing five people, she smiled widely.

“I’ll go make some tea, you must be dying for a cuppa!” She bustled away down the stairs.

“Don’t forget the biscuits, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock shouted after her.

“Oh,” said Donovan, disappointed, as she looked round the room. “I thought everyone might be naked.”

*

Later, John and Sherlock sat in their respective chairs with the telly off and the windows wide open.

“It turned out all you had to do was touch the feather again?”

“Yes.”

“That seems easy. Too easy. So easy you couldn’t think of it before?”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked.

“Told you I was bored. And don’t come over all sulky, you liked being a bird. It was a unique opportunity. I enjoyed it as well.”

All John could do was stare.

Sherlock looked down at his right hand. Four fingers and a thumb attached to his arm at the wrist, and such a small thing he’d taken quite for granted loomed large in his mind. He tilted his hand back, listening and feeling the carpal bones give a satisfying crack as they shifted into place. Pleased, he stood up and held out this hand to John.

John took it, grasping it tightly in his own. For a moment they stood in contented silence, gazing down at their interlocked hands.

*

David Jones, former Deputy Keeper of Ancient Egypt and Archaeology for the British Museum, was now awaiting trial in London with his accomplice. Everyone except Sherlock had been surprised when Mr. Jones had turned up unexpectedly outside New Scotland Yard, staggering about as though he were drunk and having no memory of departing Egypt.

“Mycroft moves in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform,” was all Sherlock would say in response to John’s questioning. He hadn’t asked his brother for assistance, but Sherlock understood they were always being watched. Mycroft had given no indication that he knew anything unusual had transpired, except that a five-kilo bag of Premium Bird Seed Mix was wont to appear every week on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street.

Sherlock contrived to ‘lose’ the feather for a few days while he had a forger of antiquities (the best in London: three of his pieces were in the British Museum alone) round to replicate it. The forgery, indistinguishable from the original in all meaningful respects, had been given to Lestrade. The original he placed safely underneath his Stradivarius in the chest at the foot of his bed. One never knew when being a bird might come in handy, though he had a few ideas. He rather thought John might like it as a birthday present. **  
**

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=1157695#t1157695).  
> Before I began writing this fic there was very little I knew about birds other than the fact that they flew, and as such I owe a great debt to [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Main_Page)(specifically the articles on the [House Sparrow](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/House_Sparrow), the [Eurasian Sparrowhawk](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eurasian_Sparrowhawk), the >[Carrion Crow](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carrion_Crow), the [Tawny Owl](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tawny_owl) and the [European Herring Gull](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/European_Herring_Gull)), and also to [Birds of Britain](http://www.birdsofbritain.co.uk/bird-guide/sparrowhawk.asp) and [The Owl Pages](http://www.owlpages.com/owls.php?genus=Strix&species=aluco). I'm afraid that I exercised my creative licence and made Sherlock [a female sparrowhawk](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Accipiter_nisus_Meneer_Zjeroen.jpg) but hopefully no-one will notice. [This is John](http://i79.photobucket.com/albums/j122/lei_che_sogna/gifs/house-sparrow-male.jpg).  
> I've also drawn from [Breaking the Color Code by Anita Stratos](http://www.touregypt.net/egypt-info/magazine-mag06012001-magf4.htm) and my own knowledge of Egyptology as learnt through the [Amelia Peabody books](http://www.ameliapeabody.com/) written by Elizabeth Peters.  
> No thanks go to the British Museum website, which was a morass of unexpected dead links.  
> The original quote, "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth," is from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I have paraphrased it slightly, but it's not mine.  
> The title is of course from 'Such Great Heights' by The Postal Service, but I had a slightly different version in mind which is included in the now-obligatory mixtape [here](http://lei-che-sogna.livejournal.com/8537.html).


End file.
